


comfort food

by OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [41]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 01:28:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18436202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: Hermann is sick.





	comfort food

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: “Newmann for “This has been a shitty week and you just grabbed the last box of my favourite comfort food from the shelf, do you really want to fight me rn?””

Hermann’s wrapped in three layers and still shivering, occasionally pulling out a tissue from the packet in his pocket to wipe at his running nose. The fluorescent lighting in the store is making his eyes burn, and he pushes the ridiculous sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose from where they’ve slipped.

The aisle is full of sweetmeats and achingly carefully decorated cakes, protected by their translucent covers, but he ignores them all, searching the shelves until he finally finds it.

As he reaches for the box, though, someone ducks in front of him and grabs it off the shelf. 

Hermann blinks. “…please give it back,” he says, hoarsely, and the other man glares at him, clutching the box to his chest.

“ _No_ ,” he says, stubbornly, “I grabbed it fair and square. Hands _off,_ dude.” Something about his voice is familiar, but Hermann, half-high on cough syrup, can’t place it.

“Please,” he says, pathetically.

“ _No_ ,” the other repeats.

Hermann lets out a rattling sigh. “I _will_ tackle you,” he warns.

The other scoffs. “What, and give yourself a concussion? You weigh _maaaaaybe_ a hundred fifty pounds, dude, I think I’ll be fine.” 

Hermann’s dead-tired and sick, barely able to hold himself up even with the use of his cane, so he shuffles over to the other and—well, _falls_ on him, for lack of a better term, slumping onto the shorter man. The other squawks, flailing to try and not overbalance.

“ _Dude_ ,” he hisses, “what the _fuck_.”

“‘m sick,” Hermann murmurs, “give me the pie, please, or I’ll knock us both over.”

He can’t see the other’s expression, but he imagines it’s a mix between shock, anger, and confusion. “But it’s the _last_ cheescake,” he whines, “please, dude, I just got done grading finals. Gramercy, man.”

“ _Gramercy?_ ” Hermann mutters, “you’re in the wrong century.”

The other lets out what seems to be a delighted bark of laughter. “Dude, you got it? Woah,” he says, “hey—the pie’s enough for the both of us.”

Hermann briefly debates the dilemma. They’re obviously both too stubborn to concede to the other—even if _he_ was the one reaching for it first, so _he_ deserves it—and then says, “Alright.”

“Just like that? Dude, for all you know, I could be a serial killer!”

“I highly doubt that,” Hermann retorts, “and even if that were the case, at this point, death would be preferable to this misery.”

The man pats his shoulder and then pushes him away, but he watches Hermann, making sure the other’s got a decent grip on the cane. “Alright,” he says, “that’s just pathetic, dude. We’re gonna share it.”

Hermann doesn’t say anything, heading for the cashier’s, walking as steadily as he can. They have a brief tiff over who’s going to pay, but the other—Newt—eventually wins by shoving his card into the card reader and typing in his pin. “You’re _sick_ ,” he says, batting aside Hermann’s hand.

They only live a few blocks apart, so Hermann just invites him into the flat, and they sit on the couch and eat cheesecake out of the box, Hermann half-buried under a pile of blankets.


End file.
